by J. D. Robb
No one would dare put their feet up on the gleaming silver table, or curl up for a nap on the gold cushions of the straight-lined sofa.
She heard the click of heels on the tiles and turned to study Madeline Bullock, in the flesh.
The ID photos hadn’t done her justice, Eve decided. She was a presence. Tall, stately, handsome, with silver-blonde hair sleeked back from a youthful face and rolled smooth at the nape of her neck.
Her eyes were arctic blue, her lips painted red as the hearth. She wore a sweater and full-legged pants that matched her eyes, and diamonds glittered like drops of ice from her ears and her throat.
“Lieutenant Dallas.” She crossed the room the way a well-appointed yacht sails a calm sea. Smooth and important. The hand she offered sparkled with both diamonds and rubies. Eve wondered if she’d accessorized to match the room.
“I spoke with your associate a few days ago,” Madeline continued, “about that terrible tragedy at Sloan, Myers, and Kraus.”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re Roarke.” Her smile warmed several degrees. “I don’t believe we’ve ever met. How odd, considering.”
“Ms. Bullock.”
“Please, please, sit. Tell me what I can do for you both.”
“I was under the impression you’d left the country, Ms. Bullock,” Eve began.
“And you’ve caught us out.” She laughed lightly, crossed her legs with a whisper of silk. “My son and I decided we wanted a little time, incognito, if you understand.”
“I know the term,” Eve said dryly, and Madeline’s smile didn’t falter a fraction.
“We did tell Robert—Robert Kraus—and several others that we were leaving New York. I’m sure you understand that being entertained can be just exhausting. Of course, you’re both young. You must enjoy the constant round of dinners and parties and fêtes.”
“I live for fêtes. Can’t get enough.” This time, that smile flickered toward a frown for just an instant. “You couldn’t just refuse an invitation? Or explain that you and your son wanted a few quiet evenings?”
“So much is expected of people in our position.” On a heavy sigh, Madeline lifted her hands, let them fall gracefully to her lap. “Sometimes those expectations are a burden. Accept this invitation, and refuse that one, feelings are hurt. It was just a little ploy to avoid all that and have those quiet evenings. We do love your city. Ah, here’s some refreshment.”
The droid wheeled in a cart holding decanters, a teapot, plates of fruit and cheese, and little frosted cookies.
“May I offer you brandy or tea? Perhaps a bit of both.”
As he anticipated her refusal, Roarke laid a hand on Eve’s knee, squeezed lightly. “Tea would be lovely.”
“Wonderful. I’ll pour. You’re excused,” she said to the droid, who slipped silently away. “Cream, lemon?”
“Neither, for either of us. No sugar, thanks.” Roarke took the lead. “You have an impressive home. Marvelous view.”
“The view was the pull. I could sit and watch the river for hours. All of our homes are near water of some kind. I feel very drawn to it.”
“You have this lovely home,” Eve put in, “but you stayed in Robert Kraus’s this trip.”
“We did. His wife—have you met her? Lovely woman. She extended the invitation, and it seemed like fun. We do have a nice time together. We enjoy cards.” After passing out the tea, she poured her own. “I’m afraid I don’t understand why that would be of interest to you.”
“Every detail of a murder investigation is of interest to me.”
“Then it’s still being investigated? I’d hoped it was all settled by now. Terrible thing. They were both so young. But surely you’re not looking at Robert?”
“Just getting the full picture. You knew Randall Sloan.”
“Of course. Now there’s a social butterfly. Such energy! Nothing stay-at-home about him.”
“I don’t know. He died there.”
“I’m sorry? What did you say?”
“Randall Sloan was found early this afternoon, hanging from the chandelier in the bedroom of his brownstone.”
“My God.” Madeline pressed a hand to her breasts. “Dear God. Randall? Dead?”
“When did you see or speak to him last?”
“I don’t…I can’t take this in. It’s such a shock. I…Please.” She reached over, tapped open a silver box. Inside was an intercom system. “Brown, please tell Mr. Chase to come down right away.”
Madeline sat back, pressed her fingers to her brow. “I’m sorry, this is such a shock. I knew the man nearly a decade. We were friends.”
“How close friends were you?”
Hot color streaked Madeline’s cheeks as she dropped her hands into her lap. “I realize you must ask questions at such a time, but I find the implication in that question in very poor taste.”
“Cops have very poor taste. Were you and he involved on a personal level?”
“Certainly not in the way you mean. We enjoyed each other’s company.”
“I’m told he persuaded you to bring your business to his father’s firm.”
“He did. Years ago. I found the firm’s reputation, ethics, and service more than satisfactory.”
“Robert Kraus was listed as your accountant.”
“That’s correct.”
“Yet Randall Sloan kept your books, the books for the foundation.”
“No, you’re mistaken. Robert does.”
“Randall Sloan oversaw the finances of the Bullock Foundation from day one, until his death.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Oh, God! Win! Sloan is dead.”
Winfield Chase stopped short in his stride across the room. He had the look of his mother, the same strong build, same strong face, same glacier eyes. Then he moved quickly to take the hand she’d thrown out toward him.
“Randall? How did this happen? Has there been an accident?”
“His body was found today, hanging from a rope in his bedroom,” Eve said.
“He hanged himself? Why would he do such a thing?” Winfield demanded.
“I didn’t say he hanged himself.”
“You said…” Winfield checked himself as he stroked his mother’s hand. “You said he was found hanged, I assumed…” He widened his eyes. “Are you telling us he was murdered?”
She had to give him credit for the fancy British play on the word. It made it sound as if Randall should have been wearing a smoking jacket while he choked to death.
“I didn’t say that either. The matter is under investigation. And as the investigator I’ll ask you both where you were on Friday between the hours of six and ten P.M.”
“This is insulting! How dare you question my mother in this manner.” His fingers linked with Madeline’s now, and her free hand moved to rest on his thigh. “Do you know who she is?”
“Bullock, Madeline. Formerly Chase, born Madeline Catherine Forrester.” Their body language had something curling in her gut, but she kept her eyes steady. “And in case you don’t know who I am, it’s Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Until the cause of death is determined by the Medical Examiner, this matter is being treated as an unattended, suspicious death. Answer the question.”
“Mother, I’m going to ring our solicitor.”
“Go ahead,” Eve invited. “You’ll need one if you’re afraid to tell me your whereabouts on Friday.”
“Calm down, Win. Calm down. This is all so upsetting. We were home all evening. Win and I discussed plans for our spring gala, a fund-raiser the foundation is hosting in April in Madrid. We dined about eight, I believe, then listened to music and played cards. I suppose we retired about eleven. Does that sound right to you, Win?”
He looked down his nose at Eve. “We had lamb cutlets for dinner, preceded by a smoked tomato soup.”
“Yummy. Have either of you ever been to Randall Sloan’s New York residence?”
“Of course.” Madeline kept a firm hold on her son’s hand. “He
often entertained.”
“On this trip?”
“No. As I explained before, we were looking for quiet evenings.”
“Right. Do you do any driving in the city, Mr. Chase?”
“In New York.” He gave her a look of mild distaste. “Why would I?”
“Couldn’t say. Well, thanks for your time.” Eve got to her feet. “Oh, your accounts, as overseen by Sloan, Myers, and Kraus will be turned over to the U.S. and British tax authorities—and, I imagine, those same agencies in several other countries.”
“That’s outrageous!” Winfield might have lunged forward, but his mother surged to her feet and kept the reins on him.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she demanded.
“There are a number of questions regarding those accounts. Me, I’m a murder cop. What do I know? I’m sure the proper agencies will find the answers.”
“If there are any questions regarding the foundation accounts, they’ll be answered by Sloan, Myers, and Kraus. Robert Kraus…” Madeline paused, laid her free hand on her breast again. “But, no, you said it was Randall who, in actuality, kept the accounts for us. That alone is an outrageous breach of trust. Has he embezzled? Dear God, we trusted them, trusted him.”
She leaned into Chase, and his arm draped around her shoulders. “Was he using us?” Madeline demanded. “Is that why he killed himself?”
“That would be tidy, wouldn’t it? Thanks for your time.”
And that, Eve thought, would give them plenty to think about.
She was grinning darkly when she slid into the car.
“I don’t believe we’ll be invited to the spring gala in Madrid,” Roarke commented.
“Breaks my heart. You get a load of them? They’re like one of those Brit drawing room vids you like—the old-time ones? She thinks on her feet, I’ll give her that. She never figured we’d come knocking on the door, but she was ready for us when we did. He, on the other hand, needs direction, and a short leash. Got a temper, he does.”
“He killed them.”
“Bet your righteous ass he did. Question me, will you? Threaten me? Oh yeah, he did them all, then he came home and told Mommy all about it. Bet they’re pissed off to realize three murders haven’t covered up the accounts after all.”
“They’ll push it onto Randall Sloan.”
“They’ll try. I’ll let the Feds and Global worry about that end. Murder in the First, three counts. Conspiracy to commit, accessory before and after. I’m going to roll them up in a ball on this.”
“I might ask how?”
“He left his DNA on Byson’s fist. So science is going to get him. And my canny investigative skills are putting together enough to get a warrant to compel him to give us a sample of that DNA. Peabody and McNab get lucky, Sloan will have something incriminating on them at his place. I get that one, Win, into Interview, I’ll piss it out of him. Without his mother holding him back, he’ll come at me, and he’ll spew. I can see it in him.”
“They could take off for England, for anywhere, tonight.”
“Could. Won’t. Flight makes them look suspicious. She’s got too much control for that. What they have to play is shocked and outraged. Their pal, their handily dead pal, deceived and abused them. He used their lauded foundation for his own gain. Shame and horror! She’s working that out right now, and she’s calling Cavendish—or one of the contacts on that in England—to give him the lowdown, have them start injunctions, restraining orders, anything they can pull out of the hat.
“Gotta get Cavendish in the box, too. I’ll sweat it out of him inside thirty minutes. He hasn’t got the spine. He’ll flip on them. He knows about the murders, and he’ll flip for a deal that keeps him out of a cage on accessory.”
Roarke stopped at a light, studied her. “Pretty damn wound up, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah, I am. It’s falling for me, piece by piece. I’m going to get started on that warrant on Chase, and one for Cavendish.” She dug out her ’link. “I can have them both in the box by morning.”
She interrupted both an APA and her commander’s Sunday night, put them on conference on the dash ’link and was still running the case through when Roarke drove through the gates.
“I need the mandatory DNA sample on Chase,” Eve argued.
Dressed in something slinky, APA Cher Reo scowled on-screen. “Allegedly questionable accounting practices, allegedly overseen by a man who was not the accountant of record, and who has left a suicide note confessing to the murders before hanging himself.”
“The ME isn’t going to rule self-termination.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“I fucking am sure.” Eve winced. “Excuse me, Commander.”
Whitney only sighed. “If the lieutenant ‘fucking’ is sure, Reo, we should push for this. If Chase is clean, the worst that happens is he’s insulted and complains to his embassy, has his lawyers screw with us.”
“I’ll find a judge who agrees with you,” Reo said. “The same’s going to go on Cavendish. It’s shaky, Dallas.”
“I’ll make it solid. I want them both in by eight-hundred tomorrow. Thank you, Commander. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening.”
“How about me?” Reo demanded.
“You, too.”
“Nice work.” Roarke leaned over to kiss her. “I’d give you a warrant.”
“Bet you would. They’ll lawyer up the gonads, but it’s not going to help them. I’m going to nail them, Roarke. For Natalie, for Bick, and for that asshole Randall Sloan. And by the time I’ve finished, the Feds and Global will have to pick up the pieces to add time for tax fraud and money laundering and whatever the hell else they want to stick to them.”
She hooked an arm around his waist as they climbed the steps to the front door. “Really needed you on this one, ace.”
“Pay me.”
Her laugh turned to a sneer as she stepped into the house and saw Summerset. “Can’t you ever be somewhere that’s not here?”
He ignored her, spoke directly to Roarke. “The soother calmed Mavis enough that she’s sleeping. I’ve put her and Leonardo in the blue guest room on the third level. It’s quiet, and she needs to rest.” Now he aimed those dark eyes toward Eve. “She’s been much too active and upset today.”
“Yeah, blame me.”
“Whoever kidnapped Tandy Willowby is to blame,” Roarke said. “And we all want Mavis to get as much rest and care as she needs.”
“Of course.” Summerset cleared his throat. “I’m concerned.” He looked at Eve again with what might have been an apology in those same dark eyes. “I’m concerned.”
If a broomstick with legs could have affection for anyone, Eve knew Summerset had it for Mavis. “I can’t keep her down unless I tie her down. All I can do is find Tandy Willowby.”
“Lieutenant,” Summerset said as she started up the steps, “I can make you an energy booster, one that contains no chemicals as you dislike them.”
“You could make me a booster, and I’d consume it into my body?” She gave a snort. “Do I look like I’ve recently lost my mind?”
She kept going, and glanced back at Roarke. “I’m not taking any witch’s brew he concocts, so forget it.”
“I said nothing.”
“You were thinking it. I’m getting coffee, and tagging Peabody. If Mavis is down for the count tonight, I can go over there myself, relieve her and McNab. I have to update Baxter. He’ll want in on the interviews tomorrow.”
“Eve, Christ Jesus, you need sleep.”
“I thought you were saying nothing.”
“Bloody goddamn shagging hell.”
It was as far as he got when her ’link signaled. “I guess you’d better hold that Irish thought. Dallas.”
“Check it out,” Peabody sang, and turned her ’link so Eve saw the dark mouth of a safe.
“Hot diggity damn!”
“It’s the second we found. Nearly gave up, but my guy here is stubborn.” A very tired
-eyed Peabody made kissy noises.
“Cut that out.”
“Aw, he earned it. First safe was in the library. False front, nothing any burglar with a working brain couldn’t have found and popped. Cleaned out. We were very sad, figuring whoever killed Sloan got to it first.”
“I bet that’s just what he did, too. Figures he cleaned up anything incriminating Sloan had tucked away.”
“But McNab said, ‘Screw that, She-Body’—speaking to me. How you said the vic has some brains, so why wouldn’t he have another hole, and a deeper one. If not here, somewhere else, but we’re here, so we’ll keep right on looking and looking and—”
“You’re babbling.”
“Sorry. My brain went to sleep an hour ago. The rest of me hasn’t figured it out yet. Anyway, we found this one in the kitchen. It’s built into the pantry—where, I might add, the guy had prime consumable goodies. We didn’t eat anything. It was hard and painful, but we resisted. And in this nice little safe—which took my Scottish stud thirty-five minutes to crack—we found cash. Two hundred and fifty large—some jewelry. And…a shitpot load of discs. They’re labeled, Dallas, and some of that shitpot is Bullock Foundation records.”
“Motherload. Bag it all, log it all, bring it all.”
Eve turned to Roarke with a toothy grin. “Got the bastards.” The grin faded when she saw the tall glass of murky green liquid in his hand. “Where’d you get that?”
“From the faeries.”
“I don’t want faerie juice.” She planted her feet, lifted her fists into a boxer’s stance. “And if you try to pour that into me, you’re going to bleed.”
“Oh, dear, I’m terrified. Threatened with bodily harm by a woman who can barely stand upright. Half for me,” he said as she snarled. “Half for you.”
“Damn it.” She couldn’t punch him if he was going to be reasonable. “You first.”
With his eyes on hers he lifted the glass, drank half of the contents. Then cocked his head, held the glass out.
“Disgusting, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “Your turn.”
She made a face he thought a recalcitrant twelve-year-old would have been proud of, but she snatched the glass, squeezed her eyes shut, and gulped the rest down. “There. Happy now?”